


Heat in the Fog

by Wynn



Series: The Two Sides of Monsieur Valentine [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: And excessive amounts of cussing, Angst and snark and feels ensue, As well as disbelief and rage, Bucky is a mess, From Zola and from his thoughts about Steve, M/M, Steve is determined to help, With liquor and chocolate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-09
Updated: 2014-03-09
Packaged: 2018-01-15 05:09:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1292566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wynn/pseuds/Wynn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After his rescue, Bucky finds himself tormented by memories of his capture and of his changing thoughts about Steve. Upon waking from another nightmare, he finds Steve crouched beside him, determined to help him as Bucky always helped Steve.</p><p>Excerpt: <em>Bucky shoves the bedding onto the cot, yanking at it, twisting it, searching for the ends. But the tangle remains, and he wants to rip the mess to shreds, to burn it and blow it up. The scream wells again in his throat, and he stands, hunched over the bed, his body hot and tense. He thought that the army would fix things, that he’d fight in the war and come back a hero, that he could find a nice place to live afterward and use his pension to start a garage and finally, finally, send Steve to art school, but the world had only broken further and broken him in the process, Bucky a killer and a captive and a dead, mangled thing, no place for him here or anywhere.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Heat in the Fog

In the midst of the fog, the needle shines. Bucky tries to back away, but his legs dissolve beneath him and he falls to the ground, helpless. Behind the needle, the doctor looms. Light reflects off his glasses and obscures his eyes, but through the fog, Bucky sees the gleam of his smile, bright like the needle. He digs his hands into the ground as they both approach and tries to crawl away, but straps hold him fast. Then the needle pierces and his body burns, and Bucky opens his mouth to scream, but as he does, the fog rushes in, wet and thick, and he—

“Bucky!”

—wakes. Strong hands grip his shoulders as he flails on the ground and pin him flat. He lashes out. His fist strikes flesh, and he hears a grunt of pain. The sound is so familiar that he finally opens his eyes.

The drab green of an army tent greets him first, then the heat from the heater six inches from his head, and then Steve, crouched above him, one hand on his jaw. The reality resolving around him banishes the dream. Bucky is in France, not Italy, with Steve, not Zola, and the Commandos, not Hydra. He closes his eyes and tries to breathe in, to soothe the pounding of his heart, but when he does, he again sees Zola and the table and once more feels the burn.

“Bucky?”

Bucky starts and looks at Steve. He still holds one hand up to his jaw, and even in the dim light of the soft lamp, Bucky sees the shadow of a bruise form from his panicked punch. But it is the concern in Steve’s eyes that makes him wince, that makes him roll over and turn away.

“Bucky, are you—”

“I’m fine.” The words are harsh, but they do not tremble, and for this, Bucky is grateful. Silence greets his response, as thick and heavy as the snow outside. Swallowing hard, Bucky pushes to his feet, trying not to trample his blanket or overturned cot. He sees a flash of movement from the corners of his eyes, Steve kneeling to retrieve his pillow, dangerously close to the space heater. Before the thought even coalesces, Bucky is moving, snatching the pillow from Steve and nearly knocking him flat with his sudden approach.

“I got this,” he says, not looking at Steve. “I don’t need you treating me like a goddamned child.”

Steve rises, slowly. Bucky feels the weight of his gaze upon him. “Neither did I,” he says, his voice quiet but firm, the new voice of the Captain. “But that never stopped you before.”

At that, Bucky closes his eyes. He knows that Steve hated it when he hovered. He knew it then too, before the war, before Steve tripled in size and became a goddamn hero, but he never let it stop him, too focused on keeping Steve healthy and alive to constantly soothe his wounded ego. But now the tables had turned. Now Steve was whole and healthy, and Bucky was the one who was broken. His hands dig into his pillow at the thought, and he feels a scream well in his throat, but he swallows it down as he has every other time since Steve saved him. “I’m… sorry,” he says, the words sticking in his throat. “I— It was a nightmare.”

There is a second of silence and then Steve says, “Yeah, I kind of gathered that when you punched me in the face.”

The sarcasm eases Bucky’s grip on the pillow, sarcasm infinitely preferable to concern. Glancing back at Steve, he says, “Maybe I was just doing your ugly mug a favor.”

One corner of Steve’s mouth curves into a smile, and his grip relaxes further. “As always, Buck, your favors are much appreciated. But I think my mug’s doing just fine now on its own.”

The hint of a smile expands into a grin. Bucky stiffens at the sight, at the reference to Peggy and her interest in Steve. Turning, he shoves at his cot, pushing it upright. He throws his pillow onto the rough canvas and then reaches for his bedding, his movements stiff and savage. He feels Steve watching him, he feels the air thicken again with concern. He can already see the look on Steve’s face, the crease between his brows, his lips parted in the need to aid, to fix, to save. The image makes his blood boil.

“Are you done gawking at me?” he asks, kicking his cot straight. He still clutches the bedding in his hands. “Not all of us are goddamned super men who can go on one hour of sleep.”

Silence greets his rage. Bucky shoves the bedding onto the cot, yanking at it, twisting it, searching for the ends. But the tangle remains, and he wants to rip the mess to shreds, to burn it and blow it up. The scream wells again in his throat, and he stands, hunched over the bed, his body hot and tense. He thought that the army would fix things, that he’d fight in the war and come back a hero, that he could find a nice place to live afterward and use his pension to start a garage and finally, finally, send Steve to art school, but the world had only broken further and broken him in the process, Bucky a killer and a captive and a dead, mangled thing, no place for him here or anywhere.

He sinks down onto the cot, exhausted. His chest heaves for air, and he places his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. A few seconds pass and then the cot creaks as Steve sits beside him. Bucky waits, but Steve doesn’t say anything. He feels the thoughts race through his brain, the memories lurking like demons in the shadows. He wants a drink, he wanted one so much that the need scared him, but Bucky wanted it all the same, wanted something to flood the thoughts and drown the memories.

There is a rustle of movement, the shift of fabric and something else, like a crinkle of paper, and then a chocolate bar slides into view, the end propped by Steve on Bucky’s leg. 

“Dum-Dum’s mom sent him some. He gave me one. Payment for losing the drinking bet. Do you want to share?”

Bucky stares at the chocolate. His jaw tightens. No, he does not want to share. He hated sharing, but now he had to, Steve pulled at and wanted by everyone. The thought stills him, as soon as he realizes it. He’d never admitted it before. His jealousy. But he was jealous. Steve had been his, the one thing that had been, everyone else dying or dumping him. But now he wasn’t, Steve beloved by all, the Commandos, the army, the entire fucking country, and, most especially, by her.

“Bucky?”

Bucky shakes his head and pushes the bar back toward Steve. Steve grasps it with nimble fingers. Bucky looks at the hand for a moment before standing and moving away. But the thoughts still come, despite the distance, as they have since he woke up on that damn table with Steve towering above him like a knight in leather armor. Bucky wants to blame the thoughts on Zola, on changing those as he changed everything else, but he can’t. He’d never been that good of a liar. There had been more than one night in his captivity where his thoughts about Steve had taken that particular turn. Bucky had let them, what did it matter, Steve in the States, or so he had thought, and Bucky all but resigned to death. But he was alive now and Steve was here, as golden on the outside as he’d always been on the in, but Bucky wasn’t, Bucky was broken and Steve wanted Peggy and everything chafed and rattled and spoiled.

“Are you going to tell me what’s bothering you?” Steve asks after a moment, his voice again the voice of the Captain. 

Bucky tenses against it and shakes his head.

Silence engulfs them again. Bucky hears movement, the cot creaking as Steve stands. He waits, but Steve says nothing, and after a moment, he finally walks away. The tent flaps open and then shuts as Steve leaves. A blast of cold air blows inside, and Bucky shivers. His hands clench and his need for a drink resurfaces, rising in a wave that washes out all of his thoughts, all save one, the fact that he is alone. Bucky grits his teeth as the scream wells again. His chest shudders and hot tears prick his eyes, but then a commotion outside his tent breaks through his breakdown. He hears voices outside and turns, and he has a moment to recognize the presence of the chocolate bar on his bedding before his tent crashes back open, the flaps flying apart as a cot barrels through. It’s followed a beat later by Steve, and Bucky watches, slack-jawed, as Steve drops the cot opposite his own. Without a word, he turns back to the entrance. The flaps open before he arrives, arms holding bedding thrusting through. In the gap, Bucky sees Gabe, his face creased in concern as they lock eyes. 

“Run interference for as long as you can,” Steve says to him as he claims the bedding. “Send anyone looking for me to Stark. He should hold them off for a while.”

Gabe smirks at that. “Man could talk ice into buying a heater.” He holds something else out to Steve. “From Jacques.” The object resolves into a bottle of liquor as Steve brings it inside the tent. He nods once and Gabe does too and then he retreats, leaving Bucky and Steve again alone.

Bucky watches Steve turn and approach. He tosses the bottle onto Bucky’s cot before moving to his own to unroll his bedding. He is as fastidious in his arrangements as Bucky is a mess, and the sight makes Bucky want to kick Steve’s cot and tear everything apart. 

“What are you doing?” he asks instead, his body tense like a trigger.

“Sleeping here.”

Bucky narrows his eyes, but the effect is lost as Steve still faces away. “Yeah, I kind of gathered that when you brought in the damned cot. I meant why.”

At that, Steve finally turns. He crosses his arms over his chest, and the movement strains the plain grey tee that he wears. Bucky tries not to stare as Steve begins to explain. “Something’s wrong. This is the fourth night you’ve woken up screaming. Everyone’s concerned.”

The revelation about everyone makes Bucky freeze. “My life is _my_ business, Steve.”

“I know. Everyone knows. Why do you think it took us four days before we finally did something?”

Bucky’s mouth snaps shut at the question. As it does, some of the consternation fades from Steve’s face. He moves closer, his eyes on Bucky, and Bucky tries to stop it, but he can’t. His breath catches in his chest and his heartbeat quickens, Steve gorgeous in the low light. But it’s the look in Steve’s eyes that affects Bucky the most, the expression so familiar, a constant in his life for nearly twenty years: a mix of determination and pride, his gaze open and genuine and so damn clear. Bucky feels foul in comparison.

“You should go,” he says before Steve can speak again.

“Why?”

Bucky tenses at the resistance. “Because I told you to.”

Steve shrugs. “So what? I told you to every time I got sick, but you never listened to me.”

“This is different.”

“How?”

Bucky clenches his jaw. He looks away.

“How?” Steve asks again.

Bucky shakes his head. He shivers from the effort to stay quiet, to stay sane.

“How?” Steve asks again, moving back into his line of sight. 

The light shines full on his face, and Bucky breaks at the sight, nowhere for him to run, not now, no dame to distract him and no privacy either, Steve here and pushing in ways that he never could before. Twisting toward him, Bucky grabs hold of his shirt and presses his lips against Steve’s. The kiss is the tamest that he’s had since he was twelve, but he trembles all the same, from doing this, from fear of the outcome, from the need inside him for more, sharper than his need for a drink and more insistent. 

Steve tenses at the kiss. Beneath his hand, Bucky feels the gasp of shock that rocks through his chest. He jerks away before Steve can, turning back toward his cot and grabbing again at his bedding. He knocks the chocolate and the liquor to the floor as he yanks at the blanket. From the corners of his eyes, he sees Steve draw in a ragged breath. His hands clench the fabric so hard that he nearly rips the seams. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—” Bucky stops as anger and shame flood him. He feels his face heat, and his fingers dig into the scratchy brown wool. “I told you to go, but you wouldn’t fucking listen.”

Steve says nothing. Bucky hears him drag in another breath and then one more and then he says, his voice steady and strong, “Neither did you.”

The comment freezes Bucky. For a moment, he can’t move, he can’t think, he can’t even breathe. He glances at Steve, expecting to see anger or disgust on his face, but he sees neither. Instead, he sees only the look of concern again and something more, something that makes his hands tighten harder around the blanket. “What did you say?”

Steve doesn’t look away. “You heard me. I walked into a Hydra base alone. For you. I thought it was obvious.”

Obvious. Obvious. He thought it was obvious. The words bounce around the tent and in Bucky’s brain, echoing and bounding and rebounding again. His heart pounding in his chest, Bucky swallows. His grip eases a fraction on the blanket. “What about—what about Peggy?”

Steve looks away then; a faint blush stains his cheeks. He rubs a hand along the back of his neck and shrugs. “A stubborn, mouthy brunette? How could I not?” A beat passes and then he glances back at Bucky, and the implication is clear.

Jesus Christ.

“Jesus Christ,” Bucky says as he sinks down again onto the cot. He still clutches the blanket, not in anger or fear anymore, just to have something to hold onto as the world realigns. He looks at Steve and opens his mouth, only to close it once more and swallow. “Jesus Christ,” he says again. “I thought—”

“What?”

“I thought you would punch me in the face.”

Steve smiles at that. “Normally I would. But not this time.”

Not this time.

No, not this time.

They look at each other, silence again descending between them. The seconds slide by, and for once, Bucky has no clue what to do. He stares at Steve, waiting. After a moment, the smile fades, and after another, Steve draws in a breath, and after one more, he moves, easing closer to the cot. His eyes on Bucky, Steve sits beside him. A sliver of space separates them. Bucky focuses on it, aware of Steve, of the heat of him, his muscles moving beneath his shirt as he shifts. Bucky digs his hands again into the blankets. “So,” he says, licking his lips, “what happens now?”

“Why’re you asking me?” Steve asks, letting loose an incredulous laugh. “You’re the one who’s done this before.”

“With dames,” Bucky says, turning to him. “Not with—”

“A guy?”

Bucky releases a short breath. “You. And also a guy. But mostly you.” He stops and looks away. Heat suffuses him and suffocates. Bucky shoves at the blanket, pushing it to the ground, but as soon as it’s gone, he wants it again, unsure of what to do with his hands. He fists them on his thighs and stares down at the liquor bottle, caught now between their feet. Heart pumping hard, he says, “You… you matter. They never did.”

From the corners of his eyes, Bucky sees Steve nod. Swallowing again, his voice a shade above audible, he says, “Does Peggy?”

Steve nods again. “But so do you. And I never… I never thought you would.”

Bucky nods too, just to give some sort of a response. He places his hands on his knees and rubs his palms against the thick cotton of his pants. Then Steve moves. Bucky watches as he lifts a hand, as he stops, as he lowers it again only to lift it a second time. Bucky hesitates for just a moment and then he brings his right hand closer, sliding it along his leg before twisting it so the palm faces up. A heartbeat later, Steve places his hand on top of Bucky’s, and their fingers close around each other. Bucky releases a slow breath. Steve’s hand is solid and warm, it’s real, and it makes this real too. He expects the knowledge to unsettle him, but it doesn’t. Instead, he finds himself relaxing for the first time in a year, a soft smile tugging at his face as he stares at their hands.

“Can we…?”

Bucky turns to Steve and finds him staring at his lips. His smile settles into a lascivious smirk. “It’s nice to know I’m as irresistible to a guy as I am to dames.”

Steve looks at him and arches a brow. “You’re something all right, but I’m not sure it’s irresistible.”

“Give me a minute,” Bucky says as he leans in. “I’ll have you changing your tune.”

Steve shifts and this time meets Bucky halfway. Their lips touch, and the kiss is as chaste as before, but only for a moment. Bucky tilts his head and opens his mouth, and Steve follows suit. Bucky expects it to be different from kissing a dame, and it is, but only because it’s Steve. He twists on the bed and releases Steve’s hand, needing to touch his face. He slides his palm against Steve’s jaw and cups the back of Steve’s neck. His fingertips ruffle the ends of Steve’s hair, and Steve shudders. His hand clamps down onto Bucky’s leg, and Bucky hardens from the touch. He guides Steve’s head an inch to the left, parts their lips again, and goes in for the kill, touching his tongue to Steve’s and coaxing it into a caress. Steve surges forward as he does, nearly knocking Bucky back. His right hand grips Bucky hard on the shoulder, and Bucky knows that he’ll have bruises there tomorrow, but he doesn’t care because he’ll also have Steve.

His head spinning, he pulls back. He has time for a breath before Steve closes the distance again and resumes the kiss, this time turning Bucky’s own tricks against him. His hand slides up from Bucky’s shoulder onto the bare skin of his neck, and the touch of his palm, of his thumb easing up to caress his jaw, wrenches a groan deep from Bucky’s chest. He wants to press Steve back and climb on top of him, he wants Steve to push him flat and fuck him hard against the cot. Lust shoots through him hard and bright at the thought, and he almost does it, tensing to move, Steve’s fingers dipping beneath the collar of his tee, before the thought of where he is prevails and he pulls away a second time.

Swallowing hard, Bucky opens his eyes. Steve’s lips are wet and pink, gorgeous and obscene. His eyes open a fraction of an inch, and the glimmer of dazed blue makes Bucky’s dick throb and his hand tighten on Steve’s neck. He wants to lean back in, but he focuses on the tent flap, on the knowledge of what lurks outside, the army and the war and everyone focused on Steve.

Steve sucks in a stilted breath and finally loosens his hold on Bucky. He licks his lips, and Bucky has to close his eyes again, the sight too damn much. He doesn’t know how they’re going to survive the rest of the war without broadcasting this new development to the whole fucking army. Phillips would probably send Bucky away, back to the front, or else he would discharge him, maybe dishonorably, denying Bucky Steve and a pension too. And Steve… they’d never let him go, not now, not after he showed them what he could do nearly a dozen times over. Bucky stiffens at the thought, rage building inside him again at the lousy world that would give them this, but no place to be with it. To be with each other.

He feels light fingertips at the edge of his face. Opening his eyes, Bucky looks at Steve. His brow is creased again and concern softens the glaze of lust in his eyes, but the worry doesn’t rankle Bucky like it did before.

“It’s okay,” Steve says. He slides a thumb against Bucky’s cheek, and Bucky clenches his jaw, this too much, Steve too much, but not enough. “We’re almost done. Just two more Hydra bases and then—”

“We go home?”

Steve hesitates a moment before nodding. In the hesitation, Bucky sees the same frustration and doubt, the same uncertainty that exists within him as to what the future will hold. Death and the war still dog their heels and, beyond them, the whole damn country wanting Steve, demanding all.

“Do you want to sleep again?” Steve asks, abandoning for now the unfixable. “We ship out early, and as I recall, not all of us are goddamned super men who can go on one hour of sleep.”

Bucky shoots him a look for the sass. Steve just smirks in response. His eyes are bright and his face is flushed, and Bucky tries not to grin like a loon at the knowledge that it’s because of him. Instead he gives Steve a small shove and says, “You’re a punk.”

Steve shrugs as he stands. “Maybe so. We can’t all be irresistible.” He takes a step forward, only to stop and glance back, and the look on his face is absolutely evil as he takes in Bucky’s still hard cock. “Or maybe we can.”

Or maybe we can.

Jesus Christ.

Bucky swallows hard and shifts on the cot, trying subtly to adjust. As he does, he hears Steve chuckle. Reaching down, he grabs the chocolate bar and chucks it at Steve’s head, but faster than he can imagine, Steve raises his hand and catches the bar in midair. Bucky gapes at him, more turned on than he’s ever been in his life. Laughing again, Steve rips open the package and breaks the bar in two. He tosses half to Bucky, who catches it, though in a slightly less graceful manner than Steve. Steve places his beside him then leans down to unlace his boots. Watching him, Bucky shoves half the bar into his mouth. His eyes flutter shut at the first glorious taste. He moans and chews and moans again, trying to go slow, but he can’t. He never can.

Steve chuckles again as he eases back onto his cot. “Should I leave you two alone?”

“No,” Bucky murmurs. He reaches down and palms his dick through his pants. “You can watch.”

There’s a sharp intake of breath from Steve. Bucky opens his eyes, slowly, knowing damn well the sight that he makes, his head thrown back and his hand on his cock. With one finger, he shoves the rest of the chocolate into his mouth. Steve’s jaw falls open as he slides the finger back out. Bucky swallows and sends Steve a wicked smirk, and he sees Steve’s breath hitch in his chest. Good. That’ll be the image that sends him to sleep tonight, not the memory of a brown-eyed British brunette. 

For a few seconds, Steve sits frozen on the cot, then he eases beneath his blankets, his movements slow and dazed. They sink into silence once more, the only sounds Bucky crawling beneath his bedding and Steve, finally, taking a bite of his chocolate. Achieving some sort of alignment with his blankets, Bucky lays back, one leg cocked to the side to try to ease the pressure in his pants. The sensation, though, is not uncomfortable. He feels content, infinitely preferring the pressure in his pants to that placed on his chest the past year, the past dozen years, the pressure the pressure of death, Steve’s or his own. The table flashes into his mind then, followed quickly by Zola, and Bucky tenses, a sliver of doubt slinking into his mind. For a moment, he wonders if he’s still there, strapped to that table, Zola and his needles imminent, and that this, all this, Steve finding him and helping him, Steve wanting him, is nothing more than another variation of the same dream. Bucky lifts his hand and pinches the soft skin of his side, but the flash of pain is not enough. He twists his head and looks at Steve, half expecting him to be asleep, but Steve faces him instead, his hair tousled and his eyes bright in the soft glow of the lamp.

“What is it?”

Bucky shakes his head. “Nothing. Nothing… I just—”

“What?”

Bucky looks away. His fingers tremble and he plucks at the blanket. He feels Steve watch him, waiting for a response, needing to hear, to know, to help if he can. Breathing in, Bucky says, “I just… I dreamed about you. When I was there. And I thought… For a moment I thought…”

“You thought you were still there.”

Bucky nods. Tears burn his eyes and he blinks them back, gritting his teeth to keep from crying out. He hears movement and a second later Steve crouches beside him. The look on his face, open and genuine, proud and determined, pulls at something hard within Bucky. He thinks it might be love.

“This isn’t a dream,” Steve says, his voice soft yet firm. “I’m here and you’re safe and nothing’s going to happen to us. We’ll stop Hydra and finish the war and then we’ll go home, and no one will stop us. I won’t let them.”

Bucky nods, wanting to believe, trying to believe. He reaches out for Steve, for the heat in the fog, but he still feels the cold creep in, the winds beyond the tent beginning to howl. He shivers, and he tries, he tries, he tries to believe, but he knows that belief lay beyond him, behind him now, a dead and broken thing still strapped to a table, waiting for the pierce of the needle and the perpetual burn.

*


End file.
